BAT
CAVE
A
shadowy nation hangs upsidedown, mothers enfolded around
infants
clinging with hooked thumbs, an
ethic of national security incubating with guano
dejecta in chilly dripstone caves.
At
the crack of night arms stretch the length of leathery wings braced
by long ramose fingers, toes pointing down, a hungry flight rising
through the smoke hole into a darkening
fluorescein sky.
Comic
masks conform to facts that cannot be faced: an aviatrix's
fingers poised in amplitheatrical flutter from brutally ancient
intent, while Mexican bats, characters etched in the palm
of their wings, brains wired as sonar
screens, yearn for echoes of delectable things.
Prey
devoured, its image disappears, ears turn inward where memories
are warmed with quickening blood—bats crucified
on civilized doors, bones pounded into poultices for a witch's
brew.
During
World War II, undocumented Mexican bats were drafted into
an American lunatic
scheme. Dropped with incendiary bombs belted to bellies, kamikazi
bats were trained to roost in strategic structures where,
in a
burst of light and a rattling sound, they would see their god.
A
Geiger counter registers bones
become stones, wings petrified into the distance of the sacrifice
we made for a Vision, freeing us to create what we'll finally
be. A bat, like a rat, need only be a bat.
